


Coping Methods

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Age Regression, Bedwetting, Communication, Crying, Diapers, Embarrassment, Frustration, Gen, Incontinence, None Sexual Age Play, Shame, Stress, thumb sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 19:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12065832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: Really, on the scale of things, Joan's coping method for dealing with stress is as valid as any other.





	Coping Methods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrellesTARDIS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrellesTARDIS/gifts).



> Edited by my darling Angel.
> 
> This is my first fic for this fandom - I hope you enjoy it!

When Joan was younger, she wet the bed.

It’s a thing that almost all of us do - when we’re small, we have less control over things. Times of stress or turmoil can make anyone lose their continence, for a brief period of time. 

But it hadn’t been a problem since she was still in single digits.

Until now, apparently.

* * *

Joan woke up, and something felt off, but that was to be expected, in its own weird way. 

She was used to Sherlock pulling something or another while she was asleep, but no, this was her bed, and nothing was out of the ordinary.

… except for the fact that her bed was wet around her crotch and her thighs. 

“Are you kidding me?” 

She sat up, and oh… yes, the sheets were wet too, because of course they were. 

Joan sighed, and she threw her covers off, wriggling out of her wet pajamas and slinking towards the bathroom. 

Hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t notice anything.

* * * 

Sherlock didn’t notice anything.

Or maybe he just didn’t say anything, although he wasn’t known for being tactful. 

* * * 

She would have dismissed it - after all, life had been as… adventurously traumatic as it had always been with Sherlock, but she was… exhausted. 

Stuff tends to just pile up, and it kept piling up - she hadn't done much to unwind, what with one thing and another, but she was more or less sorting things out. 

Apart from the fact that she was doing more laundry. 

Much more laundry. 

She beginning to think that she needed to invest in a rubber sheet, or maybe... some disposable underwear of some kind.

She was intercepted by Sherlock, after about a month of this.

She had a handful of wet sheets, because of course she did.

* * *

"Watson, while I understand that continence issues are a thing that can plague women of your age - "

"What does my age have to do with anything?" 

"Well, women of a certain age -"

"We're not having this conversation," Joan said, making her way downstairs with her soiled sheets.

"On the contrary, at this rate, you're going to have to buy a new mattress," Sherlock said, and he was following behind her. 

Of course he was.

"I'm going to the doctor on Friday," said Joan, although she had only been thinking about doing it, not actually going along and doing it. 

"Do keep me posted," said Sherlock. 

Joan rolled her eyes. 

* * *

The doctor didn't find anything wrong with her, other than stress. 

She offered Joan some medication for it, but the side effects weren't worth it. 

So now she was standing in the aisle of a drug store, staring at... incontinence products. 

That made it easier to think about them - instead of diapers.

Which they were.

She bit back a groan.

"You know," said Sherlock, "there are better options online. And the shipping is much cheaper, and staves off the embarrassment of buying them in person."

"You mean the embarrassment that happens when you run into someone you know, while dealing with some kind of embarrassing physical problem?"

"Nonsense, Watson," Sherlock said. "I've been with you when you've bought menstrual supplies, how is this any different?"

Joan resisted the urge to cover her face, or to groan. 

"Can you just go away so we can pretend we never had this conversation?"

"Plenty of people have physical problems, and there's nothing embarrassing about it," said Sherlock. "It's not as if -"

"This conversation is over," Joan said firmly, grabbing a pack at random and making her way towards the cashier. 

* * * 

Sherlock walked home on his own - at least he had the good sense to leave her alone when she began to get snappy. 

This was still frustrating. 

Way too frustrating. 

She was going to have to do something about this.

* * *

She'd bought the wrong type.

She knew it, as soon as she opened up the bag. 

They were too bulky - they weren't... "incontinence briefs," they were full on diapers.

She sighed, but shoved them under her bed. 

She'd deal with that in the evening. 

They had a case to worry about right now. 

* * * 

The case resolved - there was a whole mess with a carbuncle - and Joan more or less slunk back into her room.

She was lying in bed before she remembered that she was going to wear the goddamn special underwear.

With a groan, she sat up, reaching under the bed, and opened the packet up, all without turning on the lights.

And then she turned the lights on, because she couldn't figure out how to put the damn thing on. 

She ended up using the wall to support herself, wriggling around, getting the tapes on right.

She'd put adults in diapers plenty of times, when she was doing her residency, but it was always easier to do it to someone else.

She'd have to buy the pull ups tomorrow.

But for now... she'd more or less taped herself in, and hopefully she wouldn't have to worry about it in the morning. 

* * *

It leaked.

She'd gone through the whole annoyance and humiliation of buying them, and she was still waking up with wet sheets.

She glared at the ceiling, then stood up.

The diaper stayed down, and it made a wet "splatting" noise.

"Watson!" 

Sherlock came rushing in.

Joan covered herself with both hands, just in time, but she was aware of just how ridiculous she looked. 

"What are you doing in here?!"

"I heard an odd noise, and thought I would investigate." 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. 

"Yes, I wet the bed again, thank you for noticing," Joan snapped, and the guilt was crawling up a bit in her belly, but really, Sherlock had to be used to her losing her temper at him when he was being intrusive. 

"There are -"

"Not now, Sherlock," Joan said, grabbing a sheet and wrapping it around her waist, the diaper staying wet and gross on the floor, with her pajama pants tangled around it. 

The sheet was gonna be gross, but she'd already peed on it, so what more could she do?

"Right," said Sherlock. 

And then he just... left. 

Wow. 

Maybe the smell really was bothering him.

* * *

"Watson," Sherlock said, when she came back from the washing machine, "there are multiple solutions that you can use to deal with this."

"It's not a "deal with it" problem. It's just stress. When I'm not stressed, it will go away."

Joan made her way towards the bathroom. 

"You don't have to be ashamed," Sherlock said, and now he was standing there, with his awkward, uncomfortable body language that he always wore when he was trying to be sincere. "When I was young I also wet the bed on occasion, and I am aware that being a woman of a certain age -"

"That is the second time that you've called me a woman of a certain age," Joan said, making her way towards the bathroom to take a shower. 

"What would you prefer me to use?" 

"I'd rather you drop the subject."

"I am finding it difficult to work when the scent of urine is wafting down from your bedroom."

"Well, there's not much I can do about it," Joan snapped, and then felt guilty for snapping. 

"I'll figure something out," Sherlock told her. 

"You do that," Joan said, and she closed the bathroom door. 

* * * 

She didn't wet the bed the next night, thankfully. 

It was a good thing, too, since the diaper she'd taped onto herself had managed to untape, and she woke up with the diaper wadded down the leg of her pajama pants. 

"Nice and dry this morning, Watson, very good," said Sherlock distractedly. 

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Joan said shortly, opening the fridge.

And then closing the fridge, because there was something blue and fuzzy in the middle of it. 

"Sherlock," Joan said, in the tone of voice of one who was about to lose her temper, "why is there a container of mold in our fridge?"

"Experiment," Sherlock said. 

"You know what?" 

Joan ran her fingers through her hair, covering her face. 

Sherlock ignored her, taking a carton of eggs out of the fridge. 

"I'm going to the coffee shop," Joan told him. "By myself."

"If that's what you want," Sherlock said, unperturbed. 

* * *

"Why are you being so nice about this?" 

Joan looked at Sherlock over the rim of her glass, on eye brow up.

"Hmm?"

Sherlock was drinking a cup of coffee and looking through an old case from before either of them were born. 

"About the whole... bedwetting problem," Joan said, and she was blushing as she said it, but she was going to keep talking, because she needed to know.

"Why wouldn't I be nice about it?" Sherlock looked up from his case file, his brow wrinkled. "It's a physical problem. I'd no more condemn you for temporary incontinence than I would for you breaking your leg."

"Right," said Joan. "Thank you. I know you're sensitive to certain smells."

"You're doing your laundry regularly," said Sherlock, "and I know that you have the matter well in hand."

"Well, thank you," said Joan.

She _didn't_ have the matter well in hand, exactly - she was beginning to think she should try some of those medications, regardless of their side effects.

"What do I need all this hair for, anyway," Joan mumbled to herself, as she taped herself into the diaper for the night. 

* * *

She woke up damp, with Sherlock standing over the bed. 

"There is a company in Japan that makes special alarms," he told her earnestly, as he pulled her coverlet off of her, leaving her damp and exposed to the open air.

"Sherlock!" Joan tried to grab at her coverlet, then gave up and let him bundle it up. "What time is it?"

"Ten past eight," said Sherlock. "I let you sleep in." He rubbed his hands together. "Now. I assume you can undress yourself, but I would like to try... possibly helping you."

He cleared his throat, and Joan noted, in a detached sort of way, that he was wearing gloves, like the kind they wore to crime scenes.

"Helping me?"

"I've been looking up the optimal way to put an adult in nappies and -" 

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm offering my help. As a sort of.. caregiver role, I suppose," Sherlock said, and he was practically vibrating with excitement at this no doubt excellent idea. 

Well, excellent in his mind. 

"Excuse me?"

"Caregiver, Watson. I'm offering to help you."

"Why?"

"Because you're my friend," Sherlock said. "In your days of helping me as a sober companion, I know that you head to deal with some unpleasantness, and it would only be fair to return the favor!"

"There's a difference between bugging you to go to meetings and... changing diapers," Joan said, flustered. 

She'd pissed enough that the bed sheets were sodden, and it was dripping down her legs.

"I've been interested in pursuing the more nurturing parts of my personality," Sherlock said, as if that made sense.

"So get a dog," Joan said, and she glared at him, stuck in her dripping pajama pants, angry and humiliated. 

“A dog would have to be housebroken and walked,” said Sherlock, “as well as being unable to do things like hold a conversation.”

“So you want me around for my conversation?”

“You’re my friend, Watson,” said Sherlock, and his expression looked so… downright wounded that there was a twinge in her stomach. “I want to help you.”

“While also pursuing your more nurturing instincts,” Watson said. 

“Well, yes,” said Sherlock. “Becoming a godfather has made me realize that I am… somewhat lacking in that area.”

“So you want to, what, diaper me, just so you’ll be able to do it for Archie?”

“No,” he said. “I’m offering to help you. Because you’re my friend, and because you take care of me, and we are an equal partnership.”

Joan sighed. 

“I need to take a shower,” she told him. “If you want to… change my sheets, that you’re welcome to it.”

“I shall look into that alarm,” Sherlock called after her, as she made her way down the hallway, towards the bathroom.

“What alarm?”

“The one I mentioned!” 

“You didn’t tell me what it did,” Joan mumbled, and she wriggled out of the wet diaper, out of the wet pajama pants, and she climbed into the tub. 

* * * 

Sherlock had left her a plate of cut up fruit, as he was off in the basement, presumably doing the laundry. 

It was unlike him to be this helpful, but who knew.

Maybe he had turned a metaphorical corner about empathy, or maybe he was realizing that he was getting older and wanted to be a certain kind of person at some point. 

But she ate the fruit, and she weighed her options.

Medications, then. 

They'd do some things to her, admittedly, but it was better than all of... this. 

She'd been working on her kegel exercises, she'd been avoiding drinking anything after six in the evening. 

But it was still happening. 

* * * 

"I made your bed up," said Sherlock, when he came back.

"Hmm?"

"Your bed. I remade it."

"Oh." Joan smiled at him. "Thank you. That was very kind."

"Think nothing of it," said Sherlock. "And now... let us consider the case."

* * * 

They dealt with the case.

It involved an engineer's thumb being mailed to his company, and there was all manner of cleverness involved.

It wasn't until the end of the whole mess, three days later, that Joan had another accident in her sleep.

Unfortunately, she was sleeping on the couch at the time, and... it was too much.

She was crying.

She, Joan Watson, was actually _crying_ , and she wasn't one to cry, except her body... her body was betraying her, and it was _stupid_ , and she hated it, and nothing was going the way that she wanted it to go.

How could she be an adult, and deal with this? How could she be having some kind of emotional temper tantrum right now?

She should have been getting up, cleaning things, but she was just sitting there and sobbing.

What was wrong with her?

"Watson, I do believe - Watson?"

Sherlock stared down at her, his expression mingled shock and confusion.

But... he didn't walk away. 

He... crouched down in front of her, and he was fumbling into his pocket for a handkerchief (of course he had a handkerchief) and wiping her face delicately, his expression still nervous, but at least endeavoring to be... something. 

"It's alright," Sherlock said. "We can get the couch cleaned. And I can procure you some better... incontinence garments. I'm not mad at you at all - this couch has seen far worse things."

She kept crying, harder now, because everything was a whirlwind - she wasn't someone who cried like this, she wasn't someone who had panic attacks or freaked out, she was someone who was always put together.

She threw her arms around him, and he stiffened, but then he relaxed, slowly, carefully, his hand coming out to pat her on the back. 

"You're going to be fine," said Sherlock. "It's perfectly alright." 

He pulled back, and he held out the handkerchief. 

She blew her nose.

"Now," said Sherlock, "while I understand that you're upset about this, I have made a few observations."

"Why aren't you telling them to me, instead of standing there looking constipated?"

"I'll have you know that my bowel movements are so regular you could set a clock to them -"

"Thank you for that."

"And I am merely waiting for you to calm down enough that you will not get mad at me when I suggest something."

"Why do you think that I'm going to get angry at you?"

"Because your emotional state is somewhat unstable at present, and you tend to get snappy when you've been crying."

"I do not -" Joan paused, and she took a deep breath. "I won't shout at you."

"So there are several reasons why you are suddenly somewhat incontinent," said Sherlock, and he was using his lecture voice. 

Joan, sitting there in her wet pants which were cold on her thighs, resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"I highly doubt it's stress - you have never mentioned bedwetting when talking about being a surgeon -"

"Because that's something that we would talk about," Joan grumbled, aware that she was being grumpy, not caring enough to stop being grumpy.

"You also have no lost control of your bladder while you were working on any particular difficult case, or while you were being threatened with a gun."

She nodded.

"It may be age," Sherlock said. "You are of the age when these sorts of things tend to happen."

"Great," Joan said flatly. 

"However," Sherlock said, "it's usually related to sneezing, laughing, coughing, things of that matter. Not just bedwetting."

"So what's your conclusion?" Joan leaned back against the couch, then regretted it - the wet and stickiness was all the way up to her back.

"It's psychosomatic," Sherlock said. "Perhaps you're regressing?"

"... regressing?"

She blinked at him, as her mind processed what he'd said.

"Yes. Returning to a simpler time in life, no doubt brought on by the ridiculousness that is going on in the world at large, and the fact that our cases as of late have been particularly... trying."

"You think that I'm so stressed out that I'm wetting the bed the way I did when I was a little kid?" 

"Precisely," said Sherlock, "although it's a different type of stress than what you are accustomed to."

Joan raised an eyebrow. 

"Existential dread, versus situational anxiety."

"... existential dread?" 

"You're engaging in the world, and you are a woman of reasonable intelligence. Of course you're feeling existential dread. It's a wonder the whole city hasn't been reduced to bedwetting!"

"So... how do I fix this?" 

"Purposeful regression," said Sherlock. "I've been studying it as of late, in hopes of finding a solution to you current problem." 

"... you think I should purposefully act like a little kid just to keep me from wetting the bed?"

"It's been known to help with these kinds of situations."

"I'll think about it," Joan said.

"You do that," said Sherlock. "In the meantime... I will ask you to take a shower, and I will clean the couch." 

"Right," said Joan, and she stood up, embarrassment filling her whole body like a glass of water. 

* * * 

She was dry that night - maybe she'd emptied out everything or something. 

Sherlock, at least, had the good grace not to say much of anything when she came downstairs from her shower, simply opening up a new case file and sliding it towards her, until she went to bed. 

She woke up to a package at the foot of her bed.

At least he hadn't wrapped it. 

That would have been... undignified. 

* * * 

“Did you get me… pull ups?” 

Joan made her way into the kitchen, full dressed, her hair wet from her shower, carrying a plastic bag to be tossed into the trash.

“I thought that you would be more comfortable with incontinence products that you can put on with minimum amounts of fuss.”

“So you got me pull ups.”

“Top of the line, from the finest medical supply shop in the state! Should those prove to be unsatisfactory, I can order you some from Japan.”

“Why Japan?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from the pomegranate he was inspecting. 

Why was he inspecting a pomegranate?

Who even knew - it was Sherlock. 

“Japan has the largest elderly population in the world, and produce more adult diapers than anywhere else.”

“Gee, thanks,” Joan mumbled, as she poured herself a bowl of cereal.

“I’m not telling you this to embarrass you,’ said Sherlock, finally looking up from the pomegranate. “Merely saying that they would no doubt be the experts.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Joan, and she was grinding her teeth. 

“Are you sure? Is there anything I can do to help you become more comfortable with regressing?”

“I am not regressing!” Joan snapped. 

“Are you sure? You’re rather reminding me of a toddler in need of a nap.”

“I will _not_ be compared to a toddler by _you_ ,” snapped Joan, and now her temper was rising. 

“I was merely suggesting -”

Joan walked out.

She didn’t have the patience for this. 

* * * 

She came back, some hours later, after a lunch with her mother, to find Sherlock now examining a new fruit - it looked like a kumquat. 

“I was rude,” Joan said, sitting across from him at the table. “I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s perfectly understandable,” said Sherlock. “You’re dealing with a scary physical reality, which can make people unruly.”

“Well, thank you for accepting my apology,” said Joan. “Assuming that you’re accepting my apology.”

“Oh, I am,” said Sherlock. “So are you going to try this regression idea?”

“Like I said - I’d look into it.” 

* * * 

To Joan’s credit, she did look into it. 

The pull ups were, admittedly, a lot more comfortable than the stuff that she’d bought at the drugstore. 

She’d ask Sherlock.

She sat in her room, shifting position and things were crinkling, which was… kind of uncomfortable, but she could live with that. 

She read up on regression - on the people who did it sexually, the people who did it for fun, the people who did it for psychological reasons. 

She wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea, but… well, she’d never been one to back away from trying a new thing, if she thought it would be helpful. 

* * * 

“You’ve been to the pharmacy - were the pull ups I bought for you inadequate?” 

Joan flushed. 

“Do I even want to know how you know I’ve been to the pharmacy?”

“You’re humming a piece of pop music from a station that I know you would never listen to of your own free will, which leads me to believe that you were somewhere that had a Top Forty station playing. You also carry a trace of the chemical tang that is only used to mop the floors in that one particular drug store, due to the manager’s allergy to the scents typically found in cleansers.”

“Of course,” said Joan. “I should have figured that out myself.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, “I hope you found whatever you were looking for. Although if it was regression supplies, I’ve already procured them.”

Joan paused. 

“What?”

“Regression supplies. Dummies, things of that nature.”

“Dummies?”

“Sorry, pacifiers.” Sherlock leaned back into his chair, looking thoughtful. “Although I suppose referring to something as a pacifier does make it a bit more… straightforward. You simply pacify the infant.”

“I’m not an infant,” Watson grumbled.

“No,” said Sherlock, “you’re regressing to an infant state due to trauma and stress.”

“When you put it like that, I feel like I should be in some kind of Lifetime movie,” Joan grumbled, but she was smiling a bit in spite of herself. When it was laid out like that… it was all kinda dumb. 

Strange, kind of like something out of an episode of some television show, but it wasn’t any more of a thing than all the other things that people used to deal with problems. 

“Nonsense - you’re coping in a reasonably healthy way, apart from the damage to the furniture.” 

Joan raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re not spending money you don’t have, you’re not having dangerous sex, you’re not using anything….” 

“Well, no.”

“I’d go so far as to say that this type of thing is shockingly common, and the majority of the world has some kind of regression fantasy.” 

“Regression fantasy?” 

“Returning to a simpler time,” said Sherlock, making an expansive gesture. “To the days of diapers and Saturday morning cartoons and... whatever else Americans do with your youth.” 

“If you were to age regress, what would you be doing, then?” 

“Probably… hm.” Sherlock looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “I haven’t the foggiest, as the idea of being a child again is abhorrent to me. I hated being a child, and am grateful for my adulthood.”

“There were some nice things about being a kid,” Joan said, her tone wistful. 

“The utter lack of power? The changing body that does things you don’t want it to do? The fact that adults constantly talk to you using That Voice?”

“Just because you were a miserable kid doesn’t mean the rest of us suffered like you did,” said Joan. 

“Evidently, if your psyche seems to be so hard pressed to return to it,” said Sherlock. 

Joan sighed, and made her way to her room. 

“Where are you going?”

“To listen to my psyche,” Joan called, emboldened by anxiety, or possibly just running out of patience. 

* * * 

It was surprisingly hard to get into… whatever headspace she was supposed to be in.

She sat on the bed, and then she opened her eyes, glaring at the spot on the wall. 

She was wearing a pull up, she had the pacifier she’d bought in her mouth, she’d even bought a blanket, the texture of it soft against her cheek.

But nothing doing. 

She sighed, then groaned, covering her face with both hands. 

“This is stupid,” she told the world at large.

“Maybe it would work better if you didn’t try so hard,” said Sherlock.

Joan dropped her pacifier, grabbing a blanket to pull over her waist.

“Why are you in here?” 

“It got quiet, and I was bored.”

“You have how many cold cases mouldering around in the basement?”

“I’ve looked over them, and right now I wish to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” Joan said. 

“On the contrary, you very much do,” said Sherlock. 

“How would you even know?”

“I suspect, if you were in a regressed state, you wouldn’t be able to argue with me like this,” said Sherlock. 

“I was a very articulate child,” Joan said, trying to keep her tone lofty, considering the fact that she crinkled whenever she shifted position. 

“Yes, but your body language changes when you regress,” said Sherlock. “I’m sure we could recreate it.”

“Who is this “we,” exactly?” 

“I did say I would be willing to be your caregiver,” said Sherlock, “provided it doesn’t interfere with times when we’re needing to do other things.”

“You volunteered to be my caregiver, but I never accepted it,” said Joan. 

“You’re obviously going to,” said Sherlock. “You need someone to help guide you through it, much like you needed to be guided through your studies in becoming a detective.”

“This is _completely_ different,” Joan argued.

“It may be, but I still know more than you about it,” said Sherlock. “Would you be willing to trust me, even if you look a bit silly?”

“You really think I’ll look silly, huh?”

“People always look silly when they’re enjoying enjoying themselves, Watson,” said Sherlock. “I am well aware that I make ridiculous faces when I am using the single stick.” 

“There’s a difference between a single stick and... diapers,” said Joan. 

“Would you find comfort in knowing that I had a paramour who had an interest in paraphilic infantilism?”

He said it in the most blase way possible, as if it wasn’t some big thing, some strange thing.”

… well, okay, no, it wasn’t really a big thing, or even much of a strange thing. It just felt odd for him to mention it.

“So you see this as a kink thing?”

“Oh, not at all,” said Sherlock. “Should you wish to make it a kink endeavour, I’m sure you will be able to find a partner to your satisfaction, what with your considerable charms.”

“You’re making this more awkward than it already is,” said Joan. 

But that wasn’t really a surprise, was it? This was Sherlock, after all. 

“I’m completely uninterested in making this into a kink activity, but I would like to help you with your relaxation, which currently seem to involve age regression, which, as I said, is a completely understandable thing.”

“So what are you actually offering me?”

“I can help you attain the headspace, and keep you company while you are in it,” said Sherlock.

“Won’t you get bored?”

Sherlock shrugged. 

“I can leave you to your own devices when you finally reach that point, and it will be interesting to watch someone who doesn’t also get sexual satisfaction attempt to regress.”

Joan huffed out of her nose, and then she leaned back against the wall. 

“Fine,” she said. 

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine. Help me get into this headspace.”

“Right,” said Sherlock. “I’ll be right back.” 

* * * 

He came back, carrying a small trunk.

Sherlock really had a thing for trunks - maybe it was related to his boarding school origins. 

But it was small, dark green in color, and he set it down on the floor.

“What’s that?”

“I found you some things that I thought would help you enter into a regressed state of mind,” said Sherlock. 

“What kind of things?”

She got off of the bed cautiously, sitting on the floor and opening the chest.

It was painted on the inside, with dancing jungle animals, and she glanced up at him, one eyebrow up.

“The website promised that it would discreet, while still maintaining the… tone.”

“Tone,” Joan said, deadpan. 

There was another blanket, this one printed with bees and a honeycomb pattern, the fabric on the other side yellow and nubby, rather like her coverlet.

She let her fingers run along it - she already had a blanket, but the thought behind this one was nice, even if it did look like something that Sherlock would prefer for himself.

There were blocks. 

There were stacking rings, made of wood instead of plastic, but still brightly colored.

There was another pacifier, also emblazoned with a bee, and it had a ribbon attached to it, which was also printed with a honeycomb. The nipple of it was much bigger than the drug store pacifier that Joan had bought herself. 

And there were books. 

A whole stack of books, of various reading levels, from picture books entreating the reader to name colors, all the way to chapter books. 

“Where did you get all of this?”

“The internet, mostly,” said Sherlock. “I perused some forums on the matter, and I tried to consider some of your own tastes.”

“Which is why everything is bee themed, right?” 

“I like bees,” said Sherlock. “Should you find something else to your taste, I shall be sure to supply it.”

Beside the blanket, there were… adult sized onesies?

Joan took one out, holding it up, and okay, at least that wasn’t printed with bees.

There were little animals all over it, hedgehogs and foxes and squirrels. 

“I’ve also procured some diapers,” Sherlock said, sitting on a chair and wearing that same hopeful expression he always wore when he was hoping that he did the right thing. “But I did not think that now was the right time.” 

“... are you sure this isn’t some kind of fetish thing for you?” 

“I will admit, I’ve never seen actual age regression in play,” said Sherlock, “apart from the brief moments when you seem to “go under,” as it were.”

“You keep saying that I’m regressing, but I don’t remember it,” said Joan. 

“I can assure you, it happens,” said Sherlock. “I suspect that you usually dismiss it as a flight of fancy for a moment, but your whole body language changes.”

"I still feel like I'd notice that happening," said Joan, aware that she was being immature, not bothering enough to stop it.

"You evidently have been doing it most of your life," said Sherlock. "I didn't put two and two together until you started wetting the bed, but it would make sense. As I said, it is a perfectly normal coping method."

Joan sighed, then looked up at him, grinning a bit in spite of herself. 

"What, no teddy bear?"

"I assumed a blanket would suffice," said Sherlock. 

"I don't need a teddy bear," Joan said quickly. 

That would make it all too... much. 

Too much like a set, or some kind of creepy porn movie. 

"Right," said Sherlock. 

He was wearing his expression that always came about when he was trying to be inviting, which came to him about as naturally as a bicycling to a fish. 

But he was trying. 

"Would you like me to read to you?"

"... what?"

"Read to you. There is a selection of books in there for you to choose, depending on whatever age you're currently regressing to."

"But I don't know what age I'm regressing to," said Joan. 

"Well, choose any book you'd like, and I can read to you."

"What do you want to read to me?" 

"Let's see...."

Sherlock stood over her, his legs on either side of her body - she was... she was a good deal smaller than he was, in this position, and she wasn't sure if she liked that or not.

He leaned over her, his chin on her shoulder, and this was also weird, having him be this... unselfconsciously physically close to her. 

"This one should be enjoyable," said Sherlock, "if not exactly educational."

"Because I obviously need to be educated on the same things that a small child would need," Joan said flatly. 

"That is very true," said Sherlock. "Now. Would you like to get comfortable?"

He was holding a book - a Rudyard Kipling book, _Just So Stories_. 

She'd read it when she was very small.

"Alright," Joan said slowly. "Are you going to read me a bedtime story?"

"Essentially, yes," said Sherlock. "The relaxation might help you sleep, and keep you from having a night time accident."

She sighed, resisting the urge to rub her temples. 

This was all so... ridiculous.

But they'd done more ridiculous things, and this was at least harmless. It wasn't like he was going to tell anyone.

... hopefully.

"Now," said Sherlock, settling back into his chair and opening the book. It was an old paperback, the pages yellow. He'd no doubt bought it at a second hand sale. "Which story would you like?"

"I don't know," said Joan. "You choose."

"Alright," said Sherlock, and then he began to read. "In the sea, once upon a time, O best beloved...."

Joan closed her eyes, trying to let the words wash over her, the way they had done when she was a child and her parents had read to her. 

It helped that she was as tired as she was, and she curled onto her side and closed her eyes, the two baby blankets on either side of her, so that she could run her fingers along the hem. 

Sherlock had a nice voice for reading. 

She'd have to tell him that some time, when they weren't trying to do whatever it was they were trying to do.

She fell asleep, at some point, when the Mariner came along, and the last thing she remembered of that night was the feeling of him brushing her hair off of her face, and then the light turning off. 

* * *

Joan woke up refreshed and rested.

She also woke up dry, which was a glory unto itself. 

Maybe she would start skipping wearing the pull ups some night.

But no, then there would be more wetting - she could just _tell_ , with her luck, and she was getting dangerously close to having to replace her mattress. 

But she woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed (metaphorically), and she made her way to the kitchen, not even bothering to take the pull up off, because that metaphorical cat was out of the bag.

"You seem chipper this morning," said Sherlock. "I take it your regression last night left you clear headed."

"Why do you think I regressed last night?"

"You were sucking your thumb when you fell asleep," said Sherlock. "I've never seen you do that yourself, and I have watched you sleep multiple times."

"... because that's not creepy," Joan said, picking up a bowl and filling it with cereal. 

Sherlock didn't respond, his head no doubt mixed up in an old case or else trying to figure out some universal truth, or whatever it was that went on with him when he wasn't immediately occupied.

As close as they were, she still didn't really know what made him tick. 

"Thank you for last night," Joan said, and it was as awkward as it was sincere.

"Think nothing of it," said Sherlock. "I found it relaxing."

"What, really?"

"Oh yes," said Sherlock. "Reading aloud uses different parts of the brain, and I'm always one for exercising the parts that have gotten flabby."

"I highly doubt any part of your brain is getting "flabby,"" said Joan, as she began to eat her cereal. 

"Even a mind such as mine can become unfit, should I choose to ignore certain exercises, rather like that adage I see floating around the internet about skipping leg day," said Sherlock.

Joan snickered, trying to imagine Sherlock in one of those types of forums. 

... admittedly, the man could blend into almost any setting, but the idea of... well, slightly weedy Sherlock, amongst the meat heads....

"Have you gone to many professional gyms?" Joan's tone was overly casual. 

"I've been to a few, although I find I do my best exercising on my own or with a pre-selected partner," said Sherlock. "But "gym rats" are surprisingly observant of their fellow "gym rats," and it is helpful to keep tabs on subcultures, particularly subcultures that were flying into a rage while overly "beefed up" and thus are a threat to society at large." 

 

“Since you seem to be on the up and up about internet culture,” Joan said, trying not to snicker to herself, “have you possibly seen the picture from 30 Rock, with the caption, “How do you do, fellow kids?””

“I deal with Everyone,” said Sherlock, “I’d like to believe i’ve seen every horrible permutations of whatever… “meme” there is.”

“I can actually _see_ the quotation marks around that word when you say it,” Joan said cheerfully. “Although it could be argued by the fact that memes in and of themselves are forever changing, so you can never really know that you know all of them.”

Sherlock gave her an appraising look. 

Joan smiled with a few too many teeth. 

“I can read too, you know,” she told him. 

“What did that have to do with anything in the first place?” Sherlock sat at the table, his cup of tea in front of him. 

“When you were talking about gym rat culture,” said Joan, “you sounded like that.”

“I relate to you well enough when you’re in a regressed state,” Sherlock pointed out. “I’d say they’re similar, are they not?”

Joan sighed, and took another bite of cereal. 

“That’s different,” she argued. “I’m still an adult when I’m in a regressed state. Just… quieter.”

“Is that what it feels like?”

“I mean,” Joan said, “I fell asleep. I don’t really know if I could give you a proper… description of it.”

She was blushing. 

“See if you can, Watson,” said Sherlock, taking a long slurp of tea. “It will be fascinating to learn more about it.” 

* * * 

And then she was just… fine.

It was almost as if she’d never worried about the whole bed wetting in the first place - she still slept in the pull ups, but was dry every morning.

It went on like that for almost three months.

Sherlock would occasionally bring up her regressing, but, well, things were happening. Life was complicated and full of murderers and all the myriad ways that human beings had of killing each other. 

It wasn’t until they had a quiet week that she wet the bed again.

Well, more accurately, she wet the pull up. 

Thankfully, she didn’t leak, and her blankets were dry.

She’d taken to rubbing them against her cheeks, or between her fingers as she fell asleep.

Maybe she did enter into some kind of regressed headspace when she was sleepy, but she usually didn’t stay awake long enough to really catch on to it. 

But now, apparently, it was back. 

It really was a good thing she’d worn protection.

Although it was annoying for it to come back like this.

Joan sighed again, and took off her dry pajama pants and wet pull up. 

At least there wouldn’t be any laundry.

She shoved the wet pull up into a plastic bag to throw into the trash, and she went to take a shower.

* * * 

“Would you like to try regressing today?”

“Excuse me?” 

It was the afternoon.

Joan had gotten errands done, seen a friend for brunch, and now was back home.

“You wet the bed last night,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his book. “Well, more accurately, you urinated in your sleep, and would have wet the bed, had you not been wearing protection.”

“... yeah,” said Joan. “I think all of the craziness of the past few weeks finally caught up with me.”

“That would make sense,” said Sherlock. “Your mind finally realizes that you’re in a safe place, and thus decides to revert to its more innocent, childlike state.”

“Why are you so convinced that my mind wants to revert to an innocent, childlike state?” 

“You speak of your childhood with fondness, and when I have seen you regress, you seem to be happy,” said Sherlock. “Once more, when you intentionally regressed, you were the very picture of health the next morning.”

“Do you want to read to me tonight?”

“If you’d like me to,” said Sherlock. “Although I was thinking that perhaps you could try being a bit more proactive. Enjoy it a bit more.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything about it to enjoy,” said Joan. 

“On the contrary,” said Sherlock, “I know many people who would find an escape back to childhood’s bliss to be the exact thing that they would need to relieve the stress of the adult world.”

“Not you?”

“I hated being a child,” Sherlock said. 

“You strike me as the kind of kid who would have been bad at… being a kid,” said Joan. 

“What?”

“You know. Those kids who are just bad at being children. They always look like they’re expecting someone to be judging you, with a clipboard.”

“The boarding school atmosphere is hardly conducive to one acting like an actual child.”

“There are plenty of children in boarding schools,” Joan said.

“Yes, being trained to be good little robots.” 

Joan snorted.

“I’m beginning to think your insistence on me regressing is at least partially based on the fact that you want to do the same thing.”

“Utter nonsense,” said Sherlock. 

Joan raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll… do regression stuff tonight. If you’ll do it with me.” 

“Really?” Sherlock looked annoyed.

“It can’t hurt to try, can it?”

“A mind such as mine can’t be expected to stay engaged by… stacking blocks and watching cartoons!”

“It’ll give your upper mind a chance to relax,” Joan reasoned. “You can use it to let things in your subconscious stew. Maybe you’ll have new insights into whatever cold case you’re currently obsessing over.”

“... this is going to be a total waste of time,” Sherlock said, but there was a note of resignation in his tone. 

“Well, you can put it down as another failed experiment,” Joan said, and she did her best not to sound smug.

It was nice to know that, on occasion, she could out stubborn him. 

"How are we going to do this?" Sherlock was fidgeting, the way he always did when he was anxious and didn't want to actually admit that he was anxious. 

"Well, we could watch a movie," said Joan. 

"Nonsense," said Sherlock. "If I was going to figure out a way to keep a child occupied, I wouldn't just set them out in front of the television. It stunts growth!"

"We don't need to worry about stunting our growth," Watson said patiently. "We're already adults."

"It's the principle of the thing," said Sherlock.

Joan snorted.

* * * 

Joan sat on the floor of her room, rummaging through the trunk. 

She still wasn't up for wearing the onesie - it snapped at the _crotch_ , for crying out loud - but she had a pair of overalls that she wore on occasion, and a t-shirt that was printed with characters from cartoon shows from her childhood. 

Sherlock came in, and he was... dressed as himself.

"I thought you were gonna regress," Joan said.

"I dressed like this as a child," said Sherlock. "Must we sit on the floor?"

"Well," said Joan, "if you have a better idea." 

"We should forget about this in the first place," said Sherlock, but he sat on the floor next to her.

There was a crinkle when he sat down, and Joan didn't say anything about it, but... well, Joan wasn't going to say anything about it. 

"So what do you want to do?"

"Well," said Joan, "I've got blocks, and I've got books, and I've got blankets. What do you want to do? If you say go away, then you can go try to get out of straitjackets while being tickled or whatever it is you feel like doing, and _I'll_ enjoy myself playing."

"No, no," Sherlock said. "If nothing else, I need to keep you supervised."

Joan resisted the urge to roll her eyes again, and began to stack the blocks.

"Are you going to ignore me?" 

Sherlock sounded downright... pouty, and Joan looked over him.

No, he _was_ pouting. 

... huh.

"Do you want to play with my blocks?"

"No," said Sherlock, still pouting.

"They're there if you want to play with them," Joan said, beginning to fortify her tower. 

Sherlock didn't say anything, but she heard the crinkling as he crawled over to the trunk.

When she glanced over, she saw that he was reading, running his fingers over and over along the hem of the blanket that Joan had bought for herself. 

Joan was going to say something - it was _her_ blanket! - but then she stopped, fighting through the fog of whatever headspace she was currently inhabiting. 

But he was being quiet, and she could share. 

She remembered those lessons from her own childhood.

* * *

They stayed like that for some undetermined period of time - Joan remembered, faintly, that when she was small, she and her brother would do that kind of thing together.

But then again, even as a child, Sherlock probably wasn't one to reach out to people. 

So Joan did her thing, and Sherlock did his thing, and the two of them were quiet, apart from the clicking of the blocks as she stacked them, and the turning of pages.

* * * 

"Sherlock?"

No response.

Joan looked over, and he was sitting cross legged, reading what looked like a Richard Scarry book. 

He was sucking his thumb. 

"Sherlock," Joan said again. 

He finally looked up, and his thumb flew out of his mouth, looking straight over at her, indignant. 

"What?"

"I built a tower," she said, indicating it.

"It's not very structurally sound," said Sherlock. 

"I know," said Joan. "I want to knock it down."

"What's the point of building up a tower, if you're going to knock it down?"

Joan squinted at Sherlock - his face looked... soft. He had lost some of the usual twitchiness that usually filled him up, leaving him still.

She'd never see him this still - even in his sleep, his eyes moved under his eyelids, his whole body moving.

She never realized that she'd never seen him this... grounded before.

"So do you wanna knock it down or not?"

"... let's do it," said Sherlock, and he stood up.

"No," said Joan. "Stay down. That'll make it bigger!"

Sherlock didn't argue but he did scoot closer to her, so that he was almost close enough to touch her.

"One... two... three!"

Joan was laughing, as they shoved the tower over.

It landed on the floor with a crash, and Joan was laughing as it all landed in a heap. 

"You can make it harder to knock down," Sherlock said quietly. 

"Yeah?" Joan glanced over at him.

Sherlock nodded. 

"Can you show me?"

... in a weird way, it made sense.

Even when Joan regressed, it was her job to take care of Sherlock, to guide him towards certain conclusions.

She wasn't sure if she was okay with that or not. 

But there wasn't much she could do about that right now, in the thick of things. 

So she let him babble at her, and she tried to get lost in the sweet fog of headspace, at least to some extent.

* * *

They built a stronger tower, and it took more work to knock it down. 

But then Sherlock froze, and he cleared his throat.

"I've had just enough of this," Sherlock said, in his regular voice, and he stood up, leaving Joan sitting by herself, slightly discombobulated. 

He walked out, just like that, and now Joan was on her own, fiddling with blocks.

... and she started shaking.

Huh.

She was slammed out of her headspace, and left feeling... well, ridiculous. 

She was a grown woman playing with blocks, in disposable underwear and a pair of overalls. 

She sighed, and gathered up her blocks to put them away. 

Maybe this was a bad idea.

* * * 

She took a shower, changing out of the sweaty pull up, and she lounged in her pajamas, at least pretending to be a functioning adult. 

She was startled out of her reading daze by a loud crash.

She went downstairs to investigate, although who even knew whatever it was that Sherlock was up to.

Hopefully it wouldn't damage the furniture.

* * *

He had knocked over the trash can, which had bumped into a bunch of pans, which had all clattered down. 

"Are you okay?"

"Everything is perfectly alright," Sherlock said. "No need to worry about anything."

He was wrestling with a bulky plastic bag, which had something, heavy, plastic, and printed with... lions?

No, there weren't just lions, there were giraffes, parrots, hippos.... 

Where had she seen that before?

It took a second, then - 

"Were you diapered?"

"I don't see that has to do with anything," Sherlock grumbled, righting the garbage and shoving the plastic bag (with the wet diaper) into the can. 

"You don't have to be so grumpy about it," Joan grumbled, and she went to the fridge, taking out a small container of watermelon she'd bought the other day.

"It's... ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled. "It's childlike, it's _unsanitary_ , it's uncomfortable...."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"... I don't know yet," said Sherlock. 

He was always honest with her.

She was always honest with him.

That was how it worked, and she was at the very least, grateful for that.

"I didn't know you had diapers," said Joan, as she took a bite of her melon.

The cold sweetness filled her whole head up, and she shifted in her seat, just a bit, to enjoy it.

She was getting better at that - at just enjoying a thing for the pleasure that it gave her, even if it was a small thing.

In a regressed headspace, everything was just so much... more, and she was figuring out how to deal with that, how to enjoy it. 

It took a surprising amount of practice.

"I... am usually more productive with my interests," said Sherlock. "This reminds me a bit too much of the self indulgence of when I was using."

"... I see," said Watson. 

"While I am very much aware that I am a selfish man, it seems... unfair for me to inflict that on you, when you have already done such a reasonable job taking care of me, and I worry that my regression attempts will end up making it more difficult for you to regress."

"... why would you believe that?" 

"I could read your body language, Watson," Sherlock said, as if he was talking to... well, a child. "I am of the understanding that one of the reasons you enjoy regression in the first place is a chance to escape from the responsibilities of adulthood. If you are having to keep an eye on me, that's hardly enjoying yourself."

Watson sat back, staring at the ceiling and trying to get her thoughts in order.

"Our dynamic is such that we take care of each other," Joan said, finally. "I don't think I'd be comfortable being around you as an adult, while you regressed, but if we're both regressed...." Joan shrugged.

"What's the difference?" 

"When I'm an adult, you being Little is like taking care of any other child, minus the... fun bits," said Joan. 

"Fun bits? What "fun bits" are there of taking care of a child in the first place?"

"They're cute," said Joan. "You can pick them up, you can cuddle them, you can play with them without feeling like you're being lectured."

"I do not -"

"Sherlock, let us save the back and forth of you saying you don't lecture, and me arguing with you."

"I can play," Sherlock said. "I know how to do it."

"You'd have to stop being so self conscious about it," Joan said.

"I am the most unselfconscious person that you know," Sherlock protested.

"Well," said Joan, "in the meantime, if you'd like to regress with me again, we can try to figure something out. In the meantime, I am going to go enjoy some relaxation the adult way."

"I do not need to know your masturbation habits, Watson," Sherlock said. 

"I'm going to take a bath," Joan said, rolling her eyes and making her way upstairs, towards the bathtub's sweet embrace.

* * * 

She napped in the bathtub.

She didn't mean to, but after the regression, and then being yanked out of it like she had been... of course she was going to fall asleep.

She jerked away when the water grew cold, and she rubbed her eyes, putting her feet up on the back of the tub and yawning, rubbing her eyes with her wet hands. 

Her hair was wet as well, and she sat up, stretching, her back crackling. 

"Watson, please leave the bathroom, before I'm forced to pee in the kitchen sink."

"You've got diapers," Joan said, but she climbed out of the tub, wrapped in a towel, and opened the door. 

Sherlock walked in, more or less pushed her out the door, and then shut the door.

"You're usually not this squeamish," Joan said through the door. 

She didn't need to see him to know he was making his annoyed face. 

* * *

Joan slept without a pull up that night, and woke up dry, which was bordering on a delight, and she stretched like a cat, at peace in her very bones.

* * * 

"I bought the diapers for you," Sherlock said over breakfast. 

"How did you know what size to get?" 

"I've bought you clothing before," said Sherlock. "Of course I would know the correct sizing. These sizes are usually remarkably crude to begin with, so it was no bother." 

"Wouldn't you say that you jumped the gun a bit?"

"You were wetting the bed, and I was unsure as to what degree it was. As I cannot abide the scent of urine and do not wish for you to do laundry at all hours of the night, I thought I would offer something that would be a bit more... absorbent."

"But you thought you'd try them for yourself?" 

"There's nothing wrong with it," Sherlock said. 

"I never said there was," Joan said back, and she was aware she was using her Reasonable voice. “You sound awfully defensive who doesn’t think that there’s anything wrong with any of this.”

She was _also_ aware how obnoxious a Reasonable voice could be, but, well… Sherlock deserved to give a little bit of what he got sometimes. 

“I am self conscious, no doubt due to childhood occurrences that are quite possibly still buried at some deep point in my subconscious, but nevertheless….” 

Sherlock managed to look something like sheepish. 

“We all have our hang ups,” said Joan. 

“I would like to try caretaking you again,” Sherlock said. “Possibly while you are regressed, and I am not.”

Joan nodded. 

“I shall alert you when I am ready.” 

“Do I get a say in this?”

“I didn’t say that you had to be ready,” said Sherlock, “merely that I would be.”

“Oh. Right.”

Joan cleared her throat. 

“I’m going to bed,” she said, aware of the awkwardness that was surrounding them. 

“Would you like me to read to you?”

There was… there was something almost desperate, wanting, in his face.

He was always one who didn’t like to leave loose ends, especially in regards to her.

“Alright,” she told him. “Just nothing too… boring.”

“I would think a boring thing would help you sleep” said Sherlock. 

* * * 

So he read to her.

He read to her, and she fell asleep, and whether she regressed while sleeping or not, it was nice, calming, to be read to like that. 

She slept well. 

* * * 

“I’m ready,” said Sherlock, almost a month later.

“Pardon?”

“For… for you to regress. With me. I’d like you to get comfortable enough with me to regress.”

“Without you regressing?”

“Without me regressing.”

“Thank you for sharing,” said Joan. “I’ll, uh… I’ll keep you informed.”

* * * 

“I’d like to regress tonight,” Joan told Sherlock. 

They had worked on a case.

She was… gross. Sweaty from chasing people, there was blood on her face, and there was mud up to her knees.

Sherlock had managed to stay clean, the bastard.

“I shall join you in your bedroom after you’ve bathed,” said Sherlock. “If that is acceptable?”

“It is,” said Joan. “Thank you.”

It was all strangely formal. 

* * * 

She went to her bedroom, wearing a pull up and her own pajamas, and he was sitting on her bed, holding a hairbrush.

“Joanie,” Sherlock said, and his voice was… tentative. 

“Yes?” She rubbed her foot against her calf, scratching an itch. 

“Would you like me to brush your hair?”

“... okay,” said Joan, and she sat down on the floor in front of him, as he brought the hairbrush out, beginning to run it from the very bottom of her wet hair. 

“I had a friend,” said Sherlock, after several minutes of quiet, Joan closing her eyes and enjoying the quiet pull of the brush, “who taught me how to brush hair like yours.”

“How do you brush your hair?”

“I keep my hair short,” said Sherlock, “because brushing my hair takes too much time.”

“Oh,” said Joan, leaning against him without thinking. 

He stiffened for a minute, and then he relaxed, and put his hand on top of her head. 

“Now,” said Sherock, “what would you like to read?” 

“I want my blanket first,” Joan said quietly. 

Everything was quiet - all she could hear was the beat of her heart, and the steady up and down of her breathing, the swell and release of her lungs. 

She was lulled - even more lulled when the blanket was placed on her head. 

She wrapped it around her, and the quiet of made her sigh, leaning further into him, the comfort seeping into her very bones.

This was where she was safe - where she was supposed to be. 

Maybe it wasn’t exactly the way most people dealt with these sorts of things, but then again, nothing in life was done the way things were “supposed’ to, regardless of what people actually thought.

She twisted a piece of her newly brushed out hair around and around her fingers, before slipping her thumb into her mouth. 

“Joanie?” His voice was quiet. “What would you like?”

“Like last time,” said Joan. “I want you to.. The one with the whale. Only not the whale, because we did the whale last time.”

 

“Do you want me to read the Just So Stories to you tonight?” 

“Yes,” said Joan, within the dark and warm confines of her blanket. 

“Now… where were we?”

There were rustling noises over her, and she looked up, still covered up by the blanket. 

“Now,” said Sherlock, “Before the high and far off times, O best beloved….”

**Author's Note:**

> Like this fic? 
> 
> Want me to write you something like it, or something completely different?
> 
> Check out my tumblr, theseusinthemaze.tumblr.com!


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